


Revenge is Cold

by bukkunmoonsin (bukkunkun)



Category: Heneral Luna (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description of Corpses, Multi, i should have done this from the start, shet nakakapagod pala ito
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunmoonsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his colleagues death Rusca starts to slowly descend into madness but no one can notice. Behind that cheerful facade that he still puts up, is a psycopath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrejaPatata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrejaPatata/gifts).



> Based on crejapasta‘s [post](http://crejapasta.tumblr.com/post/130144176569) inspired by tanginae‘s Dark!Rusca post. i stg i’m never doing this two-language thing again

Joven was a cry-baby when he was younger. He cried at the littlest wounds, and gave up all too easily at the start of a problem.

As time went by, after spending day after day at war, with warriors—he learned to stop crying. Each teardrop that rolled down his cheek was a waste, compared to each drop of blood shed and wasted on the battlefield in the heat of war.

It took so very long for him to learn to cry again.

“Joven,” One of the Bernal brothers spoke to him softly. He couldn’t remember then who it was who spoke, he never bothered to find out, not when they told him the one thing he dreaded to hear throughout the time he spent with the soldiers he now deemed friends. Friends impossibly loyal to General Luna.

“The General is dead.”

Like crumbling walls in years-old churches falling to the power of a flood, his world collapsed. His hand, shot through by American bullets, burned with pain, searing through his body, and even deep into his very soul.

He couldn’t remember what he said, if he said anything at all. All he remembered was the warm embrace of two pairs of arms, the pain in his chest, the heat of his eyes through the hot tears that blurred his vision, and—above all else—the tearing pain of his throat as he howled in despair.

It took the three of them a long time to quiet down. The brothers waited for his tears to subside, until there were only soft, quivering sniffles and weak attempts at wiping his eyes dry. The shoulders of their uniforms were wet, but they had nothing to say. There was nothing else to say, not when all that they could have—and wanted to—were all in there in how Joven cried, lost in the drying tears that streaked his cheeks.

“Paco, too.” Jose whispered, lost in the clucking of the chickens outside.

Why does it have to be like this, he wanted to ask—to scream, to the whole nation, at the moon, slowly saying goodbye to bring in the dawn of a new morning.

He wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. The moon’s farewell, the General’s death, the loss of the caring, kind Paco—giving way to the new day that was coming. What a new day it would be, one without two of his dear friends—

In the middle of the flood of his grief, flooding his ears and had, he remembered Rusca. There was no word of him.

“How…” his voice was hoarse, and he almost didn’t see Manuel reach him a flask of water. “How about Rusca?”

“He’s probably still alive.” Answered the older Bernal. “He was captured, and stripped of his rank and uniform.”

It was like a stab to the heart. “Can’t… we do… anything for him?”

“No.” Outside the hut they were in, a carriage rolled by. “However, he’ll be freed. We plan on coming back for him when he’s released, but after we get you somewhere safer.”

At those words, Joven turned to look at Jose. “… Why?”

“It’s dangerous to stay here with us.” He answered. “If you stayed here, you’ll only get hurt, not just by the Americans—”

Manuel pressed the flask harder into Joven’s unharmed hand. “But fellow Filipinos as well.”

“N-no, that’s not—”

“We believe the General was murdered, Joven. We just want you safe.” Manuel’s face was sad. “That was the last command we got from the General. We want to see to it that we’ll see it through, even if it’s the last thing we’ll ever do.”

If his tears hadn’t run out yet, Joven would have spilled them again.

“I understand.” He answered.

They had Joven ride a carriage a farmer brought by, hidden among rice stalks to hide him. He was brought to the nearest town—the town where the General and Paco died. He was weak when he arrived, but he did all he could to stay strong. He could get through this trying time—and he will do whatever he could to help Rusca settle down after he was freed.

It wasn’t long before he found out the Bernal brothers also died. He was in the middle of relearning to write—with his left hand now, not his right, when his dormitory’s landlady came to him with the news. The pain he felt when he first heard of General Luna and Paco’s deaths came rushing back to him doubly stronger, but now, he couldn’t cry. His tears were still dry as ever.

His landlady was shocked at his reaction, and she stayed with him until his hiccupping breath calmed down, until his breathing, once tight, relaxed. Her motherly touch on his back, warmly rubbing circles helped, but the moment he calmed down slightly, memories of Paco’s tenderness came rushing back, and Joven was dragged back into the searing pain of his chest, of his wounded hand, of his eyes.

They stayed together for a long time, until Joven’s panic attack subsided. He thanked her sheepishly, and after promising her that he would be alright past her worried fretting, the landlady concluded that he was fine, and left.

He decided to head outside to clear his head, breath in some fresh air to calm down. He found himself a hat to wear, and after fixing himself up, he left his dormitory to walk along the cobblestone streets. Without intending to, Joven somehow ended up walking to a bakery—and he stopped to smell the baking bread.

He remembered the  _ensaymada_  Rusca always loved. On the battlefield, it was rare for them to have anything close to a proper meal, but whenever they could restock their supplies, there was always Rusca’s favourite _ensaymada_.

He entered the bakery, despite his better judgement, and bought himself two buns. He sat down at a table at the side of the bakery, near the window, and set the bun down on the table across him, ready for an empty seat.

He ate alone. At the first bite of the bread, he couldn’t taste anything. He lost his taste for sweetness, despite once having a sweet tooth.

He wanted to cry again.

“It hurts.” He told the  _ensaymada_ with one bite in it quietly. “It hurts so much to lose friends.”

Silence answered him—

—Until suddenly someone took the bun across him, and a voice he simply could not forget spoke up from beside him.

“I know the feeling.”

Joven whirled around, eyes wide, to see a grinning Rusca standing beside his table, dressed in civilian clothes, chewing his favourite bread like there was no tragedy between them.

“… Rusca.”

“Joven.” The ex-soldier grinned, and he sat down across Joven. “Wow, it’s like you haven’t aged a day. You look sleepless though.” He laughed, not unkind, but fond and familiar. “You’ve put on a bit of weight.”

“Rusca.” It was like the only thing he could say was the name of the man sitting across him, and there he found out where all his tears had gone off to. Relief poured from his heart, relief that he could meet Rusca again—it flowed, and spilled from his eyes. “ _Rusca_.”

Rusca’s smile softened, and he, too, teared up slightly.

“Joven.” His voice shook. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

They both slumped in relief, and their tears flowed past their wide smiles of delight. They got looks, as they ordered coffee, and talked about anything, and everything—but not about the tragedy of loss, and instead the joys of the past.

At Joven’s last sip of coffee, he realised that his sense of taste had returned—the bitterness of the drink was brought out all the more by the sweetness of the  _ensaymada_. His heart swelled when he finished eating, and before he and Rusca parted ways, alongside a promise of meeting again, he pulled the older man into a hug.

“I’m so grateful, Rusca.” He said, “I’m so, so grateful you’re alive.”

“Me too.” Rusca replied. “Until we meet again, Joven. Maybe next time I’ll steal your glasses like I did before.”

Instead of getting annoyed like he used to, Joven simply laughed. “I’ll wait for that.”

They parted as dusk ended, night falling over the streets. As Joven retired to bed, he was smiling again for the first time in ages, happy he could sleep peacefully again.

In the street beneath Joven’s window, Rusca stood alone, smiling, but there was something broken in the way he did.

In his left hand was a knife. In his right, was a gun.

Now that he had made sure that at least Joven was alright, he could start with his plans.

At the end of the street, he saw a soldier walking into an alleyway. It was one of the men who shot Luna and Paco.

His smile widened, and barefoot, he followed after the soldier into the alleyway, not making a sound.

Tonight, he was going to make sure—that this was the start of his long, cold revenge.


	2. 2

Killing wasn’t actually that hard, if Rusca thought about it. Between the war between him, Luna and Paco’s squadron, and the Americans and this—was there any difference in killing then, and now?

The wind was cold. If he wasn’t used to it, he would have shivered. Joven, probably, had he been there with him, would have gotten cold. He would’ve even given the blanket he was wearing to the young man.

But Joven was not there, and he wasn’t wearing anything. That was just how it was.

Near his feet, the soldier at his feet squirmed. His body was covered in blood from all the gunshot wounds and lacerations he sustained. Like a worm, he tried inching away from Rusca, but he only laughed at how pitiful the man looked.

“So you had a little fight in you.” His smile was sweet, warm and bright like the noontime sun, like there wasn’t anyone dying at his feet. “And here I thought you didn’t have any in you—especially since you did something like  _this_.”

He stepped on the soldier—he didn’t even bother learning the poor bastard’s name—and blood oozed from his wounds at the pressure Rusca put on his body. The blood made a disgusting squelching noise, and that made him laugh again. Slowly he ran the blade over the man’s cheek, cutting in deep. He stopped for a moment, pretending to deeply consider something as he tapped his chin as his victim tried to scream.

But he couldn’t. The mute could never speak.

Holding the man’s severed tongue in his hand, he whistled the jolly little song he and Joven heard when they were in the bakery.

“You know, it’s a waste I’m absolute shit at singing.” He tossed the tongue up and down in his hand, seemingly uncaring if he caught it or not. “But you know the one really good at it? Paco. Can you believe it? He didn’t want to admit that he was good at it but—” He snickered. “While he took a bath in the field, we could hear his singing from metres away. It was great. Even the General was egging him on to make him sing during those nights when things slowed down a little.”

He kicked the earth, and dust flew into the man’s wounds.

“Oh. That must’ve hurt.” Rusca grinned. “But that’s like what the General went through, right? You should know that. You were there, right?”

He received no answer, but he didn’t really expect him to answer him.

“I really want to hear Paco’s singing again. I was so happy back then.”

He walked a short distance away to look at the moon, high up in the sky, full and so very round and bright. “Isn’t it lovely? The moon’s so beautiful tonight.”

He turned to look at the dying soldier on the ground. “It’s too bad, though. This will be the last time you see it.”

He pointed his gun at the man’s head, and fired without a moment’s hesitation.

A long silence passed, until Rusca spoke again.

“Oh, man.” He complained. “This guy’s caused a right mess, the motherfucker.” He pouted, and he looked at his bloodied body. “See what you did?” he poked the corpse’s head with his toe. “Now I need to take a bath. Do you know how cold it is? If Joven was here, he’d go nuts!”

He sniggered for a moment, before shaking his head. “Ah, but I’ll deliver you first.”

He held the corpse by the hands, and dragged it away.

He eventually returned to bury the blood on the ground with earth, and while humming, he went down to the nearest river to wash the blood off his body. While he was washing himself, he yawed, and rubbed his stomach. “Oh, man. I’m already sleepy, but I’m hungry too.”

He picked up the pace, and when he finished, he dried himself off with the blanket he had with him. He got dressed in his clothes he took off, and returned to the town, where tomorrow his present for the Palace would be found.

“One at a time,” he told himself cheerfully, and passed by the bakery to indulge himself in one last piece of  _ensaymada_  for the day. “Maybe tomorrow, I’ll surprise Joven again. I wonder what that kid’s even doing these days?”

He made it home before dawn.

* * *

Mabini woke not to the sound of a rooster’s crow, but to the sound of a woman’s scream. He jolted awake, and nearly fell off his bed had he not caught himself just before he did.

“What—” he had a hard time sitting up, but he persevered, and when he could lean out the window, his heart nearly stopped in shock.

There was a body, bloody and covered in bullet wounds and lacerations, left behind outside the Palace. From the window, Mabini could see soldiers pouring out of the Palace to cordon the area.

He quickly schooled his expression, breathing deeply to get rid of the shock and horror in his chest, while outside officials followed after the soldiers to see what the ruckus was about.

Aguinaldo was the last to leave the Palace, not even looking at the corpse, but at Mabini, who was looking out his window. At one look, he knew the President was securing his safety first, and Mabini replied his concern with a single, simple nod. That was enough for the President, and he turned his attention from the window to the murmuring cabinet officials and the soldiers already beginning their investigation.

Later, Mabini will find out what happened, but for now, all he had was his suspicion.

“The last loyal friend has returned.” He murmured to himself, and turned to see the soldiers tasked to support him enter the room. “Good morning.”

“Sir, what do you think happened outside?” one elder soldier asked him while his hammock was brought into the room.

“Fated payback.” He answered, and when the man looked at him, confused, he shook his head. “It is a mere suspicion. Until we don’t know what truly happened to that man, we won’t know what the truth is.”

“The hammock is ready, sir.”

“Ah, thank you.” With a wince, Mabini got into the hammock with their help to get started on getting ready for the day. “After we finish with our preparations here, I would like to speak with the President.”

“Understood, Sir.”

He needed to know who that dead soldier outside the Palace was. If he found out his suspicions were true—

It will be hard to tell what is right and wrong, and it may come to the point of the end of his ability to hide what is clearly there.

He smiled a little, hidden behind his handkerchief he covered his mouth with to hide a cough.

If Aguinaldo could pull wool over his eyes, then perhaps so could he.

* * *

Joven was walking when a pair of hands suddenly covered his eyes.

“Good morning, Joven!”

“Rusca!”

He removed the hands from his eyes, smile wide again at the feel of his glasses being removed from his face. He laughed, and he tried reaching for them from Rusca’s raised hand. “Give those back!”

“Treat me to some breakfast.” Rusca winked at Joven, and the young man simply laughed at him. “I mean it, hey. Let’s eat.”

“I’ve already eaten.” Joven answered, stealing his glasses back from the man, amused. “You’re the only one who hasn’t yet.”

“I have, thank you very much.” Rusca grinned, “But—I’m still hungry. The last time I ate was at around dawn.”

“Why?” Joven was suddenly worried, and Rusca shrugged.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

At that, Joven was crestfallen, but Rusca smiled at him again.

“Oh, whatever. Let’s just walk. I want to know what you’re up to lately.”

“… Alright.”

They walked together in comfortable silence, listening to the sound of the town waking up in the morning. The chickens and roosters were clucking and crowing, the goats were bleating and the cows were mooing, while around them people greeted each other.

Suddenly, Joven stopped.

“Joven?” Rusca asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Can you hear what they’re talking about?” the young man asked, and Rusca took a moment to stop and listen.

“ _… dead body, in front of the Palace…_ ”

“ _… Covered in wounds_ …”

“ _… even the President himself was there!_ ”

The two looked at each other, and together, they hurried to the Presidential Palace. When they arrived, they saw the cordon that was put up, but it wasn’t enough to cover the corpse from their line of view. It was near the stairs, covered in blood, full of bullet wounds and lacerations.

Joven paled, and he gripped Rusca’s arm.

“Rusca…”

“Joven, let’s just go eat.”

Joven could only nod in reply, spooked and speechless, and slowly, Rusca led him away from the scene.

From the window, Mabini watched them carefully, expression blank, before he turned his attention back to the letter he was writing.


	3. 3

The series of bloody murders continued in the town, but the bodies were being dumped in different places. In the days following after the discovery of the first body, one by one, bodies suddenly appeared in front of the church, on the porches of cabinet members’ mansions, and even the entrance of the town.

As the days went by, Joven grew more and more frightened. Little by little, Rusca’s visits and stays with the young man grew longer and later, until he was practically living at the dormitory Joven was staying at.

“Don’t you worry, Joven.” He said one evening, while watching the soldiers patrolling the area beneath the window and the streets. “The soldiers are right there.”

“But Rusca, the killer targets soldiers.” The young man answered from where he lay in bed. “What if he changed targets to civilians and—”

“Joven,” Rusca smiled, and left the window to sit on the chair next to Joven’s bed. “I’m right here for you, don’t worry.” He pinched the young man’s nose, and laughed brightly at Joven’s displeased reaction. “Sure, I may have lost my rank—but I still know how to put up a fight.”

“I don’t want you to die, Rusca.” Joven answered quietly. “I don’t want to be left all alone.”

That made Rusca pause, and his smile softened. “I know.”

Joven studied the man beside him for a long moment, and after a stretch of silence, he spoke once more.

“Are you hiding something from me, Rusca?”

The man sitting next to him froze, and the two of them fell silent once more.

It was a long time before Rusca could answer. “… Yes.”

“Is it a lot?”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t say anything else, he  _wouldn’t_  tell Joven—his mind was so young, innocent, and his heart was too pure, like his head. He didn’t want to ruin that young man—no, that  _child—_ with his own impurity. It wasn’t  _right_  that he would involve Joven in his world full of darkness, and blood, and hatred.

Joven simply nodded in understanding.

“If the world gets too heavy, put it on my back, Rusca. I’ll be your levy.”

The older man jolted. “You’re… not going to ask what I’m hiding?”

“I won’t.” Joven shook his head. “I’ll only ask about whatever it is you’re willing to share with me. I respect your reluctance and privacy.”

Rusca gaped at him for a moment, before he suddenly laughed in disbelief. Joven looked at him worriedly, and the man spoke up before he could.

“I was wrong about you, Joven.” He smiled. “You’re no longer a child.”

This boy was not a child. He could understand his condition, even without hearing a word from the man of what ailed him. How long a year was, he thought, but how short the days had felt.

“I haven’t been for a while now, Rusca.” Joven answered. “I stopped being one when the war began.”

“Yes, you did.” He nodded. “Forgive me.”

“Always.” Joven smiled at him. “Good night, Rusca.”

“Good night.” He answered, getting up. “Remember, Joven. I will  _never_  let anything harm you. I swear on the General’s name, on Paco, Manuel and Jose’s names. I promise I’ll protect you.”

Joven gave him a wave as he left, and when he closed the door behind him, he turned and rested his forehead on the cool wood, his smile disappearing.

“Joven, do you think that…” he whispered to the door. “If you found out what I had been doing, would you still forgive me?”

* * *

“We’ve had four dead people now, Mr. President.” Mabini said. His voice was of the usual tone—cool, and blunt, but Aguinaldo could hear something else in his adviser’s voice, like he knew something he didn’t. “It looks like the efforts of the army are not enough to put an end to this mess.”

“Perhaps I can ask for your opinion on how to end this?” the President answered him with a question, downing the last of his drink. He paused, and said, softly, “Pole—”

“Mr. President, we are working.” Mabini interjected, and Aguinaldo sighed exasperatedly.

“Mabini.” He tried again, and his companion did not complain. “Until now, we still don’t have a clue as to who could have done this. We don’t have any declared suspects, and we don’t have a clear motive on these murders.”

“However, all of the victims had something in common.” Mabini replied. “Am I right, Mr. President?”

“Nothing ever escapes your observational prowess.” The man praised, laughing slightly, and Mabini scowled.

“It’s very unsavoury of you to hide things from me, Mr. President.”

“All I wanted was for you to find this out from someone else, because…” he paused for a moment, and Mabini raised an eyebrow at him. “… It seems like you’ve been losing your trust in me.”

The two of them fell silent in the lonely room.

“Miong.” Mabini said, voice barely a whisper. “I still do.”

The words tasted like poison on his tongue, compared to the smile he received from Aguinaldo in return. They dropped the subject, and returned their attention back to making new legislations, and other affairs of running a country.

Mabini’s suspicions on the string of murders festered and grew within his head. He knew now that this wasn’t some lunatic’s indiscriminate killing spree. This wasn’t murder out of sick pleasure, or scare tactics from an enemy.

Like the murder of Antonio Luna, this was done by a fellow countryman. A countryman with anger boiling red at what had happened, a countryman who knew the whole truth of everything about what happened that fateful day when the only  _true_  general of the Philippines was slaughtered like some animal.

He had read the reports about the General’s murder. He had sustained more than 40 gunshot wounds and lacerations, injuries not that all different from the ones the corpses sustained. He knew that Aguinaldo knew about this too.

“So it  _is_  true.” He murmured to himself, when Aguinaldo left him alone in the room for a moment. “It  _was_  true that you had something to do with this, Miong.”

He knew it was such a big mistake to believe in rumours. It was foolishness that led him to believe blatant lies like a blinded sheep. He had told himself long, long ago that it was completely wrong to let his feelings take the reins of his decisions, to believe what he _wanted_  to, and not what he  _should_  have.

There was only one last thing that he should do, but now was not the right time to do it. The opportunity was drawing closer, and when it came, he knew he had to make a choice:

The person who wronged, or the person who was wronged?

* * *

“It’s midnight again, time to say goodbye.”

Rusca sat down between the two soldiers struggling on the ground. “You know, Joven’s been getting really scared of all the stuff I’ve been doing. I hope I get this over with fast, but it’s just that there are too damn many of your guys.” He shook his head. “And then there are the cabinet officials, your captain…”

At the mention of those people, the two soldiers beside Rusca began to struggle anew. Rusca scowled, and he shot them both in the leg.

“For goodness’ sake, you two—neither of you are going to make it far.”

He sighed, and lay down on one. He put up his feet on top of the other soldier, and looked up again at the waning moon. “It’s rather saddening, really. The moon’s waning, and it feels like they’re really saying goodbye to me now.”

A long moment of peaceful silence passed, before Rusca stood up again.

“Would you look at that,” he complained, poking one of the soldiers in the side. “The both of you are dead.”

Slightly annoyed, he slowly began to move the bodies to where he wanted them to be found. Tonight, he wanted to have them by the Palace again—it had been a while since he shocked the President badly, and it always seemed so much more fun to cause a ruckus there than anywhere else.

He laughed a little when he noticed that the soldier guarding the perimeter of the Palace was asleep on a bench.

“You all just like making my job that much easier, jeez.” He snickered, and slowly he dragged the corpse to right next to the sleeping soldier on the bench. “I’m kind of envious at how well you’re sleeping. Sweet dreams!”

On his way back to the other corpse, he noticed a new set of footprints in the dirt headed for where he left the other body. His eyes widened, and his heart pounded—had he been discovered?—and he hurried back to the body, senses heightened and hyperaware—only to screech to a halt.

“I knew it.” The young man, his back to Rusca, said sadly, as he stood by the body on the floor. “I had an inkling you were the one who did it.”

“… Joven.”

The young man turned to face him, tears streaming down his cheeks again.

“Rusca, you were right. I’m still just a child.” He said shakily, and even though Rusca wanted to hush him, to wipe his tears his away, he was petrified with shock. “Ch-children, they don’t know about anything, l-like what losing a dear friend is like, or what true despair is—”

“Joven, don’t—”

“Rusca. A child doesn’t know the difference what is right and what is wrong.” Joven suddenly said. “I know that killing people is wrong—but—but—” he fell to his knees, and that snapped Rusca out of his stupor, pushing him to approach Joven. He knelt down with him, almost grasping his shoulders when he stopped himself.

He was dirty. He had no right to sully this young man.

“Joven.”

“But why is it that I’m okay with this? Why do I feel that they deserve to die? Why do I think this… murder is justified, because I lost the General?”

“Joven… I really don’t know.” Rusca replied. “I truly… don’t understand why either. Why I’m doing this—why they simply  _have_ to die.”

Joven looked at him, and sighed shakily.

“… So the both of us are just children.”

“Yeah.” Rusca answered. “Because, you see… I lost the ones who were teaching me what was right and wrong.”

“Me too.”

They fell silent for a long time, until Joven spoke again.

“Rusca. Tonight, I was walking outside because I had a nightmare.” He said. “I was frightened, and I wanted to find you to help me calm down. I saw nothing here at this bridge to the north, I didn’t see any blood, or dead bodies, or weapons, and I didn’t see the murderer of all those soldiers from now and before.”

“Joven…”

“We met up, right?” He continued like Rusca had not spoken, “And I stayed over at your place for the night.”

“… Yes, you’re right. We even had something eat, and I told you to hold back a little on the sweets. You might get fatter.” Rusca added, and at that, finally, Joven laughed.

“That’s right.” Joven nodded. “So, do I head to your place, or do I help you here?”

“I’ll take care of this.” He replied, and he waved Joven goodbye as he left. He waited until the young man was out of his sights, before he slumped down next to the corpse.

“Thank you, Joven. Thank you so much.”


	4. 4

“We have casualties again. Two.”

Aguinaldo didn’t have to look at Mabini to see the disappointment he could already hear in the man’s voice.

“I know.”

“The Kawit Brigade are dying off one by one, Senyor Presidente. Soldiers— _men_ loyal to you until the bitter end.”

The President sighed deeply, and finally turned to look at Mabini’s frowning face with a heavy heart. He stole a glance at the door, at the windows, and when he was sure there was no one around to hear them, he softly replied, “Pole, I  _am_ deeply grieved by their deaths.”

“Grief has nothing to do with how you run your people’s security.”

“Where has your heart gone, Apolinario?” he cut in, voice forceful, and Mabini fell silent at his outburst. “I know that you’re not the friendliest person, and that you’re a recluse, but,” he stopped, carefully considering what he was going to say, before continuing, “These days, it’s like as if we haven’t been through anything together.”

“Senyor Presidente—”

“Call me by my name. No one can hear us here.” Aguinaldo cut off his sentence, and Mabini fell silent. “Pole.” He pressed.

“… Miong.” Mabini replied through a deep sigh. “I’m not heartless.”

“Then why are you so cold to me? Are we not—” he stopped himself, blood freezing cold in his veins, and he and Mabini looked at each other, wide-eyed.

“… Are we not what, Emilio.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a statement. It was a challenge, a challenge that he needed to face, pressured under the weight of Mabini’s sharp gaze.

He swallowed what he wanted to say.

“… Brothers?”

Mabini  _looked_  at him, and he realised he had made a mistake.

“Wait, Pole—”

“No, Senyor Presidente,” Mabini replied, “We’re leaders of a nation. We have responsibilities, not only to the state of the nation, but also the state of the people who live in it.”

He didn’t know how to fix this mistake. He wanted to swear, to scream, right then and there, but not at Mabini. Never at Mabini. He wanted to scream at himself. He’s done it twice now, and if he doesn’t do anything about it, then—

“Senyor Presidente.” Mabini continued, “I propose that you tighten guard patrols all over the city, and inspect every nook and cranny of this place. There is a chance that the culprit is at the edges of this city. Note that there are hardly any bloodstains in the earth under the bodies when they were found. It’s possible that these victims were killed elsewhere.”

He fell silent, and the silence stretched on between the two of them.

“However—” the paralytic said, “I know that you won’t heed my advice.” Aguinaldo’s eyes widened, but he continued: “I am not a military tactician; and I am not a detective who solves crimes.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it.” Again, not a question. “What good am I to you here.”

Aguinaldo couldn’t find it in him to answer. He sighed, and he gently grasped Mabini’s wrist, like he was afraid it would snap at the slightest pressure. He quietly felt Mabini’s weak pulse under his fingers, and counted it in time with his breaths.

If only they could just stay like this; silent, with only mutual understanding between them that was as sweet as the scent of flowers in a garden, but—the beautiful, rose-tinted days of yesterday were gone now.

Mabini snatched his hand away.

“Just believe me when I tell you that I desperately need you.” Aguinaldo told him weakly.

Mabini’s heart wanted to believe him.

Mabini’s mind told him otherwise.

He opted not to answer, and he knew that that wasn’t the answer Aguinaldo wished of him.

There was something missing from the smile Aguinaldo gave him for his silence, and he returned his attention to the papers in silence. Unlike before, when their silence was warm and companionable, their silence now was tense, one they both wanted to break.

* * *

Days passed without incident—Rusca refrained from killing anyone in the worry Joven might grow to hate him.

Today, they are together again, learning how to write in their non-dominant hand together, when Joven suddenly spoke up.

“Are you done?” he asked, and Rusca raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not yet, my handwriting is still terrible, look.”

“Are you done with your revenge?”

Rusca froze, and slumped back in his seat.

“Not yet.”

“When will you finish?”

“Soon. I promise.”

Joven  _looked_  at him, and he bit his lip in thought.

“Please believe me.” Rusca pressed.

“I just want this to stop, Rusca. Soon, please, I beg you.” Joven answered sadly, “What you’re doing isn’t right, and it rests heavily on my mind.”

“I know, but…” Rusca looked outside, where, in the streets below them, guards patrolled, despite the hot sunshine. “They  _need_  to pay.”

“If that’s what you’re planning, then shouldn’t you be involving the government officials involved too?” he asked, “What do we do about that?”

In actuality, Rusca hadn’t thought of how far he was going to carry his plan through. Until the Cabinet? The president?

“What will become of a nation without a leader?”

What, indeed?

“I’ll find a way, Joven. Don’t you worry.” Rusca answered. “I’ll finish this, and soon. I promise.”

He squeezed Joven’s shoulder. “Please, believe me.”

“I do, Rusca, I do.” the young man answered, tone heavy with fatigue, “I know you know how far your limits go.”

Rusca smiled at him, but the both of them knew that that was a lie.

However, Joven still believed anyway. He wished Rusca would too.

* * *

“Did you see what was near the bridge?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if we should have reported it.”

“That was blood, ‘Dong! You know how it smells like, even if we’re not soldiers.”

“But it’s not red anymore; and besides, how are we even sure it’s connected?”

“ _Still_.”

“Noel, what the hell—”

“Noel? Andong?” Mabini spoke up, “What is the matter?”

The two servants paused, surprised at their charge’s sudden speech.

“Ah, Sir, uh…”

“Andong saw something near the bridge, Sir Mabini.”

“You were there too, Noel!”

“Gentlemen,” Mabini winced, “The hammock is shaking too much.”

“Ah, sorry, sir!”

They stopped shaking the hammock, as they walked to the President’s office.

“What’s this about blood?” Mabini asked.

“Ah, well, it’s just that… we found a buried patch of earth that looked like it had dried blood, near the bridge towards the north.” Noel answered. “It’s actually still there, ‘Dong and I just hid it again, because we might get suspected.”

“Ah.”

“Sir?”

“Let’s discuss this later. The President is arriving.”

“Understood, sir. We’ll come back for you later.”

Mabini nodded, and after they helped him into his chair, the two men left as Aguinaldo walked into the room. Mabini didn’t respond to his small greeting, and the man shied away slightly, ashamed, as he sat down.

They worked, silent as the dead.

It lasted until dusk.

“I would like to go around outside, after dinner.”

Aguinaldo froze in the middle of drinking water. Mabini never talked to him unless it was work-related after that fiasco of a conversation a few days ago. He jolted, and water spilled on his pants. It was cold, and did nothing to help his frayed nerves. A yelp of surprise escaped his throat.

He heard the tiniest huff of a laugh from his Vice President, and he turned to look at Mabini, who was hiding a small smile behind his fist.

“… Mabini.”

“General Mascardo told me to let you know before I go, Senyor Presidente.” He continued, “I know that these past few days, there haven’t been any murders, so that’s why I chose today to go out for a while, while the killings have stopped. Surely it’s a little safer now.”

“Wait, you’re going around?”

“I will be accompanied by Noel and Andong.”

Aguinaldo raised his hand at Mabini to stop him. “Wait. You’re going to out, and around? Later? Tonight?”

“… Yes.” Mabini’s smile widened slightly, and for the first time ever, Aguinaldo wished he didn’t do that.

“N-no. I can’t allow this. It’s dangerous outside.”

“There is no need to worry, Senyor Presidente.” Mabini replied placidly, “We both know I am blameless.” At that, Aguinaldo flinched, “Therefore, it goes to show that there won’t be any inconveniences—dangerous or not—in my travels later.”

Are you mad, he wanted to yell at Mabini,  _for sure_  things will go wrong!

Aguinaldo held back, and he shook his head.

“I really can’t convince you to not push through with this?”

“No.”

Mabini’s stubbornness was infuriating, but Aguinaldo knew he was just the same.

(It was actually one of the reasons why he loved him.)

“If that’s the case, I’ll allow you—but.” He paused at the disappearance of Mabini’s smile, and he realised he wanted that smile back on the man’s face. “I have a few conditions.”

“… What are they, Senyor Presidente?”

He still hasn’t called him by his name.

“The Kawit Brigade will join you.”

“What?” Mabini’s calm façade slipped. “Senyor Presidente—”

“I will not allow you to go outside without a security escort.” Aguinaldo cut him off, “The streets are dangerous after dusk. I don’t want you hurt.”

Mabini hesitated. It was clear that wasn’t the answer he was hoping for.

“I will have Captain Janolino join you, accompanied by his last two soldiers.” He continued, “Send Noel and Andong home. These soldiers will take you.”

“Senyor Presidente—”

“Mabini.”

They stared at each other, and Mabini was the first to relent.

“… I understand, Senyor Presidente.” He answered, and he refused to meet Aguinaldo’s gaze.

They fell silent for a moment, and Aguinaldo scratched the back of his neck. “Pole.”

“… Miyong.”

His heart skipped a beat.

“I… don’t want you hurt. That’s all I want. If I could, I would personally be the one with you there, but…”

“You have a duty to the Palace.” Mabini finished.

“Pole, you don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you call my name again.” Aguinaldo confessed. “Exactly what happened?”

“With you, with me, or with  _us_?”

“… With everything.”

“Too many things, Emilio.”

His whole name. He only called him that when—

“I knew it—are you  _trying_  to kill yourself, Apolinario?” his voice grew, chipped away at places and quivered with fear—he wouldn’t—he  _couldn’t_ —bear to lose Mabini. “Don’t you dare say you’re—”

“There’s just something I want to see, Emilio. Don’t worry.” Now, it was Mabini’s turn to grasp his hand, and slowly, he threaded their fingers together, lacing them like they were  _made_  for each other. “I will live. And should anything happen—”

At that, Aguinaldo drew a sharp breath, and Mabini squeezed his hand.

“Then I  _know_  you’ll be there to save me.”

How was he going to say no to that?

“You are such a smooth talker, Pole.” Aguinaldo laughed slightly, and shook his head. “What are you doing to me this time?”

“You noticed.” The gentle tone was gone from Mabini’s voice.

“Of course. I’m not  _that_  stupid. I didn’t know you could act so well. Just a little more, and you could get into theatre arts.”

“But it isn’t enough.” Mabini coldly deadpanned, and he pulled his hand away from Aguinaldo’s. “I am still leaving. Tonight.”

“And I’m still having Captain Janolino and his men accompany you.” Aguinaldo answered right back, and he only had a nod in response.

“I understand.”

There was a knock on the door, and Noel peered inside.

“Sirs, dinner is ready.”

“Thank you very much.” Aguinaldo rose from his seat. “Good evening, Mabini. I will see you again tomorrow.”

“Good evening, Senyor Presidente.”

They didn’t head to dinner together, again. If Noel or Andong noticed anything, they mercifully stayed quiet about it.

After dinner, Aguinaldo had the Captain called along with his last two men. Despite the fact he told himself not to, Aguinaldo couldn’t resist watching them leave from the window of his office.

He meant it. Everything he said to Mabini was true. Every word, touch—hold. He never failed in his feelings for his Vice President that evening.

He wanted to believe that what Mabini said was true, too—but. If even just one word in what he said was a lie, then it would be the one thing that would get Aguinaldo’s heart to stop beating.

Little did he know—Mabini really  _did_  mean all he said.

The weight in their hearts grew and grew with every step apart they got, and neither of them could help it.

* * *

“You’re leaving again.”

“You’re still awake, Joven?”

Rusca turned around to see Joven sitting up in bed.

“Are you really going to finish everything tonight?”

“I promised, didn’t I? I’ll finish everything soon.”

“You’re not going to kill anymore.”

“As much as possible.”

“Rusca—”

“Joven.” He went to the young man’s side. “Trust me.”

“… I do. I do trust you, Rusca, but—promise me something.”

Rusca blinked, surprised, and laughed slightly. “What is it?”

“Come back before sunlight.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m counting on you, Rusca. I know you won’t break my trust.”

Rusca smiled at him, and nodded. “As you wish.”

Joven answered with silence, and Rusca left without a final word.

* * *

“Senyor Mabini, what exactly are you planning?” Captain Janolino asked while they walked along the empty road.

“What do you mean?” the paralytic answered, and the captain sighed.

“Senyor, did you and the President fight?”

“Not really.” Mabini looked at the Palace, now far away, and he knew they were getting close to the place Noel and Andong told him about. “There’s no need to worry about our work performance.”

“It’s not like that, Senyor. I just noticed that it seems like the President has a seriously heavy weight he’s carrying. Not just about the nation, but—”

“Ah, wait,” Mabini suddenly said, “May we approach that river?”

“Which one?” asked one of the soldiers, and Mabini pointed at a mango tree at the edge of a small hill near a river, crossed by the bridge to the north. They changed directions to head to the tree, when Mabini suddenly saw a silhouette of a man near the tree.

“Captain Janolino—” That was the only thing he managed as a warning, when suddenly there was a gunshot. Mabini’s world shook, and in front of him, the soldier in front fell, dead. Mabini dropped to the ground like a stone, and pain surged up his spine like a stab to the back.

“Senyor Mabini! Here!” he felt the Captain’s tug on his arm, and he nodded wildly, and let the man pick him up. He turned to look at the other solider only to see him fall, a shot in his temple. “ _Mother_ fucker!”

They were followed by gunshots, as Janolino managed to hide the both of them behind a  _balete_  tree. He lowered Mabini onto the ground slowly, and peered behind them.

“Who the  _fuck_  is that?” he swore, and carefully, Mabini peered behind them as well, to see that no one had followed them.

“He is probably the man who killed your men,” He replied. “Captain Janolino, please forgive me—”

“Senyor, this isn’t your fault.” Janolino hurriedly reloaded his gun. “We didn’t know this bastard was going to be here, and—” the captain gave him a cocky grin, “If I _did_  blame you for anything, Senyor, the President would never forgive me.”

“W-what?”

Janolino shot a few times back at their assailant, and the gunshots stopped.

“I think I finally got him,” Janolino grinned. “Senyor Mabini—”

There was suddenly a gunshot, and Janolino froze. He and Mabini gaped at each other, and his eyes widened slightly, before he slowly fell forward and onto Mabini. The paralytic’s white clothes were dirtied with dirt and blood, and his heart very nearly stopped.

“Captain… Janolino…?”

There was a gunshot wound in the Captain’s temple.

The Kawit Brigade was no more.

Mabini heard the sound of the culprit’s footsteps, crunching against grass. The anxiety never left his chest, but he steeled himself.

The footsteps stopped, and Mabini spoke.

“I hope you’re happy.” He said, and he heard the cock of a gun. “Or is the thirst for your countrymen’s blood not satiated yet?”

“No, it’s not like that.” A voice he couldn’t recognise replied, but he already had a sinking feeling who it was. “There are just some people who needed to pay.”

“And am I one of those people?”

The man didn’t answer, but Mabini heard the crunch of grass under feet, until a shadow loomed over him. A pair of hands took the Captain’s corpse away from him, and Mabini saw the body tossed towards the river. A young man faced him, bloodied, and he looked so terribly fatigued. Mabini remembered where he saw that face.

“You’re…”

“Former Captain Eduardo Rusca. I’m a member of General Antonio Luna’s battalion.”

“… I knew it.” Mabini breathed, “Are you taking revenge for your General?”

“He wasn’t just a General to me, Senyor.” Rusca replied, and he knelt down to look at Mabini in the eye. “Did I hit you anywhere?”

“Why? Aren’t you exacting revenge on everyone who had something to do with General Luna’s death?”

“Yes.” Rusca replied simply, and when he saw that Mabini was generally unharmed, he shuffled a little closer. “I’m going to pick you up,” he warned, and before Mabini could even protest, Rusca picked him up. He brought the paralytic to the mango tree, past the dead bodies of the two other soldiers of the Brigade.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

“No, sir.” Rusca replied. Sighing, he sat down heavily next to Mabini, and neither of them minded the dirt on the paralytic’s clothes. “I know that you had no involvement in their assassination.”

“It wasn’t just the General?”

“No. Coronel Francisco Roman, Coronel Manuel Berna, and Captain José Bernal were also killed.” Rusca replied. “But, tonight, to be honest with you, sir, I’m glad that you’re here.”

“Why so?”

“I wanted to ask for advice.” Mabini turned to look at Rusca. The younger man wrapped his arms around his knees, and hugged them close. “Because, you see, Senyor, the people who used to teach me what was right and wrong are gone now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

“What  _do_  you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” Rusca replied, frustrated. “I’m… so angry. Furious. I’m shaking with rage. I feel like I want them all to die.”

“Well, a heart on fire can easily blind the eyes.” Mabini replied, “The fire setting a heart alight has smoke, and it gets in your eyes. It covers you from seeing what’s right. Whatever anger you have right now, know that it won’t bring the General back.”

“Then what  _should_  I do?”

“Accept the truth.” Mabini answered. “Do you think that what you’re doing is right? Killing the way the General was killed? Wouldn’t that make you exactly the same as those who killed him?”

Rusca didn’t answer him, but tightened his hug on his knees.

“Captain Rusca—”

“Just Rusca, please.”

“… Rusca. You should honour the memory of the General and your friends. I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to become a murder, more so a murderer of your countrymen.”

“But, Senyor—”

“It doesn’t matter if they’d sinned against the country. They will carry their own crosses, and in time, fate will judge them for what they have done.” Mabini continued. “Betraying the nation will never be paid for quickly.”

He remembered Aguinaldo, and his chest panged with pain.

“Someday, your betrayal of the nation will come to haunt you. Fate was always such an expert at that.”

“What will happen to people like me?” Rusca’s voice was quiet, and Mabini could hear the fear clear in his voice. He sounded much younger then, like a child murmuring into the fabric of his blankets, and his hands balled into fists. “Am I a traitor too? A traitor to our motherland for killing fellow countrymen? Or worse?”

“To tell you the truth, Rusca,” he paused, and sighed. “I… don’t know.”

He heard Rusca hiccup, crying softly, and he let the young man lean against him as he shook.

“All I can say is, Rusca, you need to stop this madness. All these deaths—they will lead you nowhere. You’re not helping this country, and most of all, you are doing nothing to help the General.” He sternly said. “And don’t you have someone you still have to take care of? What would happen to them if you suddenly disappeared, because of this mess full of futility?”

Rusca remembered Joven, and started crying harder.

“Senyor, I honestly feel that I’ve already let him down.” He answered, his voice in pieces. “He trusted me—a-and, I can see that whatever may happen, he’ll love me anyway, but what kind of person am I to accept something like that? How can I accept someone as pure as him?”

“Until he stops believing in you, Rusca, you deserve him.”

Mabini didn’t know if he was right with what he was saying. Was he like that with Aguinaldo, or was it time for him to give up?

“… I hope so too.”

“… It’s almost midnight. Do you have a place to go home to, or is he waiting for you?”

“Yes, sir. He made me promise him to come back before dawn.” Rusca stood up, and looked at Mabini. “Thank you so much for your help.”

“I’ve done so little for you.”

“Not really.” He shook his head, and finally, the younger man cracked a smile. “You made me remember I still have some things important to me in this life. I’ll just start all over again, from there.”

“That’s good.”

“How about you, sir, do you need help getting back?”

“No. You might end up getting arrested.”

Rusca blinked. “… You’re not going to have me arrested?”

“Remember, Rusca. First and foremost, the most important thing to me is the law. No one is above the law.” He declared. “However—with how many mistakes I’ve been making lately this month, I think I have enough leeway for another.”

“Senyor Mabini…”

“I didn’t see the culprit’s face. He ran towards the north, crossing the bridge, leaving me behind because he was hurt, right?”

“… Yes, sir.” Rusca’s eyes welled up with tears again, and he nodded. “Thank you.”

“Hurry, run.” Mabini urged him. “Before I change my mind.”

Rusca didn’t need to be told twice.

Mabini sighed, and leant back against the tree as comfortably as he could. It looks like he was going to be there for a while. How unfortunate. The night could be so cold.

* * *

“Joven…?”

Rusca opened the door soundlessly, and he saw the young man asleep in bed, in his hand, still, is a book, and his glasses were askew with the way he was half-lying, half-sitting up in bed.

He laughed softly, and entered the room quietly, shutting the door behind him gently. He took a seat next to Joven’s bed.

“It’s over, Joven. I’m sorry I took so long.” He murmured, and stroked Joven’s messy hair. “I didn’t realise how worried you were about me, but now… I promise, I’ll make it up to you.”

He removed Joven’s glasses, but the young man woke up at the slight movement.

“… Rusca?”

“I’m back.”

Joven squinted at him, unable to see him clearly without his glasses, but when he realised there wasn’t a speck of blood on Rusca, he smiled, wide and warm.

“… You’re back.”

“I’m done, Joven. I’m going to stop killing, I promise to you—”

He was cut off, when Joven suddenly pulled him into a hug. “Joven?”

“Thank goodness.” Joven sighed, tightening his hug. “ _Thank goodness_.”

Rusca smiled slowly, and remembered his bloody clothes he stuffed into the dormitory’s furnace. He hugged Joven back tightly.

“Never again.” He replied.

* * *

“He’s taking too long.”

Aguinaldo was alone in his office, but he didn’t care. He paced around, nervous and skittish with worry. Midnight just rolled in, and there were still no signs of Mabini returning.

“Where the hell is he?” he grumbled, “Going around this town doesn’t take this long—even soldiers grow tired.”

He fell silent when he suddenly thought of the possibility of Mabini getting ambushed. His gut churned in worry. What if…

“No. He’s being escorted by soldiers.”

Yet soldiers were the main targets of their serial killer. Who could say that they could take on that murderer still at large?

Aguinaldo took a deep breath. Now was  _not_  the right time to worry like this. Surely Mabini was fine.

An hour passed, and the man could not stop worrying. He grabbed his jacket, and hurried out of his room. He headed right for the stables, where the stablemen were suddenly jolted into awareness.

“S-Senyor Presidente?”

“Domeng, my horse!”

The stablemen rushed to get Aguinaldo’s horse ready, and the moment it was, Aguinaldo hurriedly mounted, and kicked the horse into a gallop right out of the Palace with a shout too-loudly ringing in his ears.

He didn’t care if someone followed after him from the Palace—he  _needed_  to find Mabini.

It took him half an hour before his search took him to the bridge to the north. He knew there was barely anything to see here, so Mabini wouldn’t have—

He saw two bodies lying down a few yards from the foot of the mango tree’s hill, and he hurriedly approached them. He was shocked to find two corpses—the two soldiers that were with Mabini when he left. Between their bodies was Mabini’s hammock, broken, and his heart very nearly stopped in shock.

Mabini was missing. Could Janolino have saved him?

He dismounted his horse to notice another body lying at the foot of the hill itself, and approached it.

“Goddamn it.” He swore. Janolino’s body looked up at him, unseeing.

Where was Mabini?

“Pole!” he yelled, “Pole, where are you?”

There was no reply, and his heartbeat grew faster.

“Pole!” he tried again, “For goodness’ sake, Pole, answer me!”

He couldn’t hear anything, and his heartbeat thundered too loudly in his ears.

“For  _fuck_ ’s sake, Apolinario! You said I’d come save you, right? Well, I’m right here, now just help me!” he nearly screamed at the mango tree. “You know I’m lost without you—I desperately need you! I can’t ever bear to lose you!”

No one answered him, and he sighed, tired.

Maybe Mabini was taken by the culprit, his mind said, but what would that person want from Mabini?

Frustrated, Aguinaldo angrily trudged up the hill. “Where are you, Pole…?”

He dropped himself onto the cold earth at the foot of the tree, and he looked sadly at the river. He froze when he felt something suddenly lean on his arm. He jolted away, but stopped when he saw his Vice President, barely conscious and fighting to stay awake, shivering, and bloodied.

“Pole!” he hurried to pull his jacket off to wrap it warmly around Mabini, and he didn’t hesitate to pull the paralytic into his arms.

Mabini woke up a little.

“… Miong?” he mumbled softly, and Aguinaldo’s fears were gone, just like that.

Mabini was  _alive_.

“Pole.” He tightened his embrace, and slowly, Mabini’s shivering began to calm down. “I’m so glad.”

“It’s… so cold.”

“Forgive me, I took too long to find you.” Aguinaldo apologized. “I’m taking you back to the Palace with me.”

Mabini laughed weakly, slightly delirious, as he rested his head on Aguinaldo’s shoulder. The President smiled at that warmly, and he stood up, carefully carrying Mabini in his arms.

“You know… I heard everything.” Mabini weakly whispered into his ear as he mounted again, and he laughed at the man’s surprise. “And… I just want to tell you, Emilio… I never lied to you. From then, until now.”

It was like his whole world could fly.

“Thank you so much, Apolinario.”

Mabini smiled at him sleepily, and he eventually fell asleep on Aguinaldo’s careful trip back to the Palace.

* * *

Mabini woke to the sound of a thud. He opened his eyes to see Aguinaldo sitting on a chair next to his bed, holding his head and glaring at a spot on the wall near his head. He laughed softly, and that caught the President’s attention.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, and Aguinaldo smiled sheepishly.

“I was just sleepy.” He replied.

“And because of that, you hit your head.” Mabini smiled, and there, Aguinaldo’s gaze on him softened with affection. He tried sitting up, but Aguinaldo stopped him. Instead of exerting effort to get up. Aguinaldo did all the work himself, propping up a pillow behind Mabini’s back for him to lean on. “Miong, I’m not made of porcelain.”

“Let me coddle you a little.” He replied. “I was so worried—I thought you died last night.”

Mabini didn’t answer him.

“What happened last night?”

“… The culprit attacked us, and Captain Janolino still managed to hide me before he was killed.” Mabini replied. “The shooter escaped northwards, across the bridge, but I didn’t get to see his face.”

“I’ll have soldiers look for him immediately.”

That was when Mabini realised they weren’t in his room.

“… Miong, is this  _your_  room?”

“Ah.” Aguinaldo flushed suddenly, and Mabini felt his cheeks turn warm as well. “Uh, well… mine was the closest room, and you were shaking so much…”

He coughed awkwardly, and Mabini smiled at that.

“Thank you, Emilio.” He said warmly, “I knew you’d come for me.”

The man answered him with a sweet smile, and for the first time in a long,  _long_ time, Mabini felt a weight taken off his chest.

That evening, he knew he had to start on his resignation letter, and the pain between them would start all over again.

Aguinaldo gently grasped his hand, and this time, he didn’t move, and his smile widened.

At least for today, he thought, he’ll listen to his heart—before it came to the time when he would start listening to his head again.

He answered him with a squeeze of hands, and no more words were needed to be said.

 

 


End file.
